


Contortions

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Romance, Women's Underwear, bralette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16044890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: "Getting dressed. Now there was her current problem."Beckett has an unexpected issue when getting ready for a definitely-not-a-date. Definitely.Three shot fluff, set some time after Vampire Weekend, 2.06.Previously posted on Fanfiction.net





	1. Chapter 1

“What the actual _fuck_?!” Beckett howled from her bedroom, much to Castle’s amazement.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s nothing.  It’s fine.”

“I’ll come help you,” Castle oozed happily.

“You stay out of my bedroom or I’ll shoot you and then break both your legs.”

There was the sound of black muttering, scowls and growls.  Castle was already totally intrigued.  On the other hand, Beckett had only started being nice to him again (for a given value of nice that was limited to his ears and nose remaining unmauled and intact) around about a week ago... after he’d complimented her cherry scented shampoo... and he didn’t want to spoil their...um...date.

Beckett had, in fact, agreed to go to Remy’s with Castle for a quick meal after work, which was absolutely definitely certainly not a date.  She wasn’t going on dates with Castle.  However, she did need to shower and change, courtesy of a disgustingly filthy crawl space she’d had to investigate.  She thought she might have had spider webs in her hair.  Ugghhhhhh.

Castle, naturally, had been totally and deliberately oblivious to all hints that he should meet her at Remy’s, and had lolloped after her all the way to her nice, neat and, crucially, Castle-free apartment.  Now he was undoubtedly poking into her bookshelf (and she was not _at all_ embarrassed that all the Storm books were there, no, not _at all_ ), messing with her coffee machine, and picking up the little stone polar bear which she’d bought in Russia. 

Unfortunately, short of letting him into her bedroom, which was a very bad idea indeed ( _only because he wouldn’t be in your shower with you_ , said an evil little brainworm.  She stomped on it.  It wriggled happily.  Apparently it loved being stomped on with stilettos), she couldn’t stop him.  She could, however, be quick.  She stripped in short order and flung her dirty clothes in the laundry basket, and whisked through a shower and a very thorough hair-washing, conscious every second of Castle’s large, male, and sexy – _no_!, invasive – cologne permeating – no, polluting – her apartment.  It was, of course, far too cold to open a window.  She’d simply have to suffer the scent – smell.

She took stock whilst drying herself, and absolutely wasn’t thinking that Castle could help her with that.

Shower achieved: tick.

Hair free of potential spiders and webs: tick.

Teeth brushed and mouthwash: tick.  ( _Bet you won’t have onions_ , smirked the brainworm.  She pickled it.  It sucked up the vinegar and belched rudely.)

Make up redone: tick.  Extra eyeliner and mascara: tick tick. ( _Oooohhhh, inviting!_ )

Getting dressed.  Now there was her current problem.

Panties, which were definitely not extra sexy because why on earth would she bother with that for Remy’s?  ( _They’ll be on fire if you carry on like that_ , smirked the brainworm.  _Don’t tell me you aren’t hoping_.)  Tick, anyway. 

Bra.  Not tick. Definitely cross.  She was surely cross.  Really, really cross.  What the actual _fuck_ was this?  “What the actual _fuck_ ,” she howled.

And of course Castle heard.  She was surprised he didn’t come bouncing in, all perked up and ready to play.  If she threw a ball, he would probably chase it.  She would start with one of his if he entered her bedroom.

Her bloodthirsty thoughts refocused themselves on the dumbass jackass freaking idiot manufacturer of her very expensive, classy and sexy newest bra, which matched the panties she had just put on.  More pertinently, since she had put off doing her laundry, it was her _only_ bra till she had hand-washed the others.  Silk was gorgeous, and she loved the feel of the fabric on her skin, but it did need hand-washed to stay classy, sexy and stunning.

Why hadn’t she looked more closely?  Why?  And when she got her hands on the manufacturer they would be telling her _why_ they had been so outright freaking stupid!  It must have been a man.  No woman would ever be so freaking _dumb_.

The bra didn’t open.  It was a perfect circle.  Therefore, it needed to arrive around the Beckett rib cage by way of fitting over the Beckett head.  Without getting the Beckett make up smeared on its very delicate silk and lace.  Thankfully her deodorant was quick-dry.  She wriggled, at severe risk of dislocating both shoulders and possibly an elbow, and achieved bra-round-ribs without injury to anything except her pride, which was substantial enough to deal with a small dent.

Wriggles over, she admired the bra-thing in her mirror.  Very pretty.  If only it had catches, or hooks, or even a teasing little zipper or lacing.  It didn’t.  Nor did it acquire one in consequence of her glare at it, which was most unfair.

She finished dressing, and emerged to find Castle looking more than usually curious and not a little smug.

“You’ve got all my books.”

“And if you’d looked at the next shelf you’d see all Paterson’s, then all Connelly’s, then the great Queens of Crime.  I’m a fan of the genre.”  She let that sink in.  He pouted.  “Now, Remy’s?”

“Yep.  Time for our first date, Beckett.”

“This is not a date.”

“Sure it is.  I’m taking you for dinner.  You’ve changed from your work attire, and redone your make up – and may I say that your eyes look extra gorgeous with the extra liner.  Very feline.”

“That’s just creepy that you thought that.  But you’re wrong.”  ( _No he’s not_.  Shut up, she thought.  _He isn’t_ , the worm said.)

“Anyway, you’ve changed and redone your make up and you’re coming out for dinner with me.  Date.”

“Not a date.”

( _It’s a date_ , the brainworm squeaked happily.  She shot it.  It waggled the bullet at her, and put it on a shelf with half a further magazine.)

“Let’s go.”

Remy’s was, as ever, loud, busy, and casual.  Which meant that it certainly couldn’t be described as a date.  Dates took place in quiet, romantic restaurants with mood lighting, candles and flowers.  ( _Awww_ , said the brainworm.  _You’re a secret romantic.  Just as well you keep those books in your bedroom._   This time Beckett tried ignoring it.  It squiggled round her mind and got comfortable, humming love songs.)

Mysteriously, neither order included garlic, onions or strong mustard.  ( _Thought you liked onions.  And garlic_.  Only sometimes.  _Every time_.  She sauted the dreadful worm in garlic.  With onions.  It ate the sauté mixture, and breathed fire.)  It did involve excellent burgers, in delicious buns ( _and those aren’t the only delicious buns you’d like to bite_ , it oozed. _Oooh, you’re blushing_.  She was not.), with smooth, creamy milkshakes, drunk through a straw.  To avoid a milkshake moustache, naturally.  That would not be appropriate for a mature woman.  ( _What you’re doing with that straw is inappropriate even for a supposedly mature woman_ , the brainworm sniped.  _It’s embarrassingly overt_.  It wasn’t.  The brainworm had an unwarrantedly dirty mind, and Castle’s blown pupils were quite ridiculous.)

Of course there had to be dessert – gooey chocolate brownie with ice cream.  Beckett invariably – and very childishly – smudged up the final traces of chocolate goo with her finger and sucked them off, and just because she was here with Castle she wasn’t going to deprive herself of every last molecule of chocolate.  His strangled squeak was merely annoying.  It certainly wasn’t satisfactory. ( _Satisfactory will come later.  Like you_.  She buried it under setting chocolate.  The brainworm ate it, and grew in both girth – _like he will_ – and smugness.)

Coffee occurred, and was consumed.  Throughout the evening, conversation had been restricted to shop talk.  After all, it wasn’t a date, when one might have discussed movies, music, or indeed merengue dancing – not murders.

Castle paid.  Beckett objected.

“I pay my share,” she grumped.

“Nope.  It’s our first date” –

“It is _not_ a date.”

Castle magnificently ignored this self-evident truth, “ – and I’m paying.  I invited you.”

Since the server had already taken the money, and Beckett had no way of forcing Castle to accept a fistful of dollars, she was stymied.  It wasn’t fair.

It was even less fair when they left and Castle inserted a hand on to her back.  She could walk very adequately by herself, not being a toddler.  She said so.

“But Beckett, you never know what might happen.  A sinkhole might open in front of you which might swallow you up, and I wouldn’t be able to save you.”

“That wouldn’t happen.  But if it did, you wouldn’t be able to save me because I’d have pushed you in to it to get rid of you.”

“Mean.”  He smiled rakishly.  “You’re only snarking because you enjoyed our date.”

“It was not a date.”

He merely grinned annoyingly.  The words _Sure it was, whatever you say_ were astonishingly audible, for unvocalised speech.  His hand left her back, which was good, and arrived around her waist, which was very, very bad.  ( _Bad for your self control.  Look at you wriggling to get comfortable and not pulling away_.  She only wasn’t pulling away because there was no room on the sidewalk. )

There continued to be no room on the sidewalk until they reached Beckett’s apartment.  Castle politely – and quite unnecessarily – walked her to her door.

“Wasn’t that a lovely evening?” he said suavely.  Beckett managed an indeterminate grunt, and opened the door.  “How kind of you to invite me in for coffee.”  She hadn’t.  ( _But you would have if you’d thought of it_.  No, she wouldn’t have.  _Liar_.)  He bounced in without a care or apology. Beckett shut the door in a very put-upon fashion, and glared at his back, which remained happily impervious and boinged itself over to the kettle.  He must have had springs in his shoes.  Or he was Tigger, in disguise.

“Isn’t this nice, Beckett?  Sharing coffee, late at night.  So much friendlier than the precinct.”

“I like the precinct.”

“I know.  You spend all your time there.”

“You what now?  Was that a criticism?”

“Dedication is a virtue.”

“When did you start understanding dedication?  Or virtue?”

“I’m very dedicated to certain matters.  Including your virtue.  Though you could use a little less virtue at times.”

“What?”

“Like now,” Castle said, took one step, pulled her in, and kissed her.  Her protest ( _what protest? You aren’t protesting in the slightest!_ ) was completely overwhelmed by his action.  It was very difficult to make any coherent noise while being very expertly, thoroughly, and hotly kissed.  ( _Yeah, right.  You’re kissing him back just as hard.  And what are your hands doing, huh? They aren’t exactly pushing him away, are they? Couldn’t undo them from his neck with a pry bar._ )

Beckett ignored the infuriating commentary and tried to gather up some brain cells, currently dissolving in a hot puddle of lust somewhere below her waist.  She failed.  Castle’s kisses were not conducive to thinking.  Castle’s hands were absolutely not conducive to anything except enjoying it.  Him.  It.  Something, anyway.  Who cared?  Just – oh, God, do that again.

He did.  The man surely knew how to kiss.  His soft, mobile lips were nevertheless sure on hers;, his explorations found areas of her mouth she hadn’t known existed, still less could feel like that; he nipped gently on her lower lip just exactly where she would but oh, her own nibble never flared through her nerves like his just had.

His hands hadn’t even gone anywhere sensitive.  One was spread across her back, one had wriggled its way into the hair at her nape.  He wasn’t forcing her head to an angle: but she was very conscious that he was holding back a lot more strength than she’d anticipated.  ( _You like that.  You’re a closet romantic.  You want swept off your feet._   She firmly instructed the brainworm to shut up.  It firmly ignored her.)  The hands were moving.  Normally, she’d have muttered darkly about fidgeting like a four-year old, but it felt pretty damn good when the movement was stroking her.

She made a soft, happy little noise, and pressed closer.  She was sure it was a very nice shirt, and no doubt very expensive too, but it was in the way.  A hand departed the skin of his neck, slipped down and round, and tugged at the cotton until the shirt untucked.  It then landed on the bare skin.

She might as well have electro-shocked him – and herself.  The kiss exploded: a war for each other’s mouth that neither could win but both were certainly enjoying fighting; a small gap between them sufficient to rip his shirt open and unzip her pants, both of which were then discarded to enjoy each other’s company upon the floor and form a threesome with her shoes; enough time to shove his pants away; heat scorching between them and absolutely no chance of anyone having second thoughts. 

She stepped back, which was entirely unpopular, and openly admired him.  Castle, not a modest man with, it appeared, a great deal not to be modest about, smirked, and admired right back.

“You’ve still got a shirt on,” he pouted.  “That’s not fair.”

Beckett didn’t dignify such childishness with an answer.  Not a verbal answer, anyway.  She slinked back to him, hauled his head down to hers, and took his mouth and sense with complete assurance.

And then she pinched his ass, just to be naughty.  That had an amazing effect, too.  He squeaked indignantly, and then ( _you planned that!_ squawked the dim-witted brainworm: of course she had!) scooped her up, kissed her hard, and whisked her into her bedroom to drop her flat on her back on her bed.

One large, firm hand arrived neatly on her sternum.  “I said,” he purred dangerously, “it’s not fair that you’ve still got a shirt on.  Even worse, it’s only giving me hints of what’s underneath.  I think you’re wearing something pretty.”

“You are,” Beckett snickered.  “Though they seem to be a little small.  Maybe you should have skipped dessert?”

Castle simultaneously preened and scowled, which was quite amusing.  “I told you my claims are large.  These aren’t _pretty_ , though.  They’re appropriate to my ruggedly handsome masculinity.”

“I have navy silk underwear, too,” she said innocently.  “I think it’s pretty.”

Castle growled at her, and flicked open every button on her shirt without a pause.  It fell open, aided by a well-judged wiggle of Beckett’s torso.  Apparently Castle’s brain had also fallen open, along with his mouth.

“P...p...p...pretty,” he stuttered. 

“Told you so,” she smirked smartly.  Castle recovered brain function, depressingly.  He didn’t need _brain_ function.  He just needed instinct.  Brain might get in the way.  She shimmied.  Brain surrendered, undoubtedly because there was no blood left above Castle’s waist to run it.

His hand dropped from her midsection, so Beckett sat up, wriggled her shoulders, and let her shirt fall off instead of simply open, watched by Castle’s bugging eyes, and then the shirt was cleared away by Castle’s smooth action.

“Very pretty,” he said suavely.

“Guess that makes two of us.”

“We match.  It’s a sign from the universe.”

She rolled her eyes.  Castle took advantage of the moment, most unfairly, and kissed her, leaning up over her and stroking down over the pretty, navy-blue silk and lace bra.  His mouth followed his fingers, as silky on her skin as the fabric, leaving tiny trails of sparks behind it.  She murmured wordlessly and arched up to him, demanding more.  More arrived: his mouth was clearly as good at breast-attending as at kissing.

Castle slipped a hand beneath Beckett’s beautiful body to find the catch of her bra to release it. Despite considerable experience of bras (if not of Becketts – yet) he seemed to have mislaid it.  His fingers wandered.  There was no catch where there was usually a catch.  Hmm.  Maybe, he thought happily, Beckett did front fastening bras.  He liked those.  Something about the way they could be made to fall open at the same time as a button-down – that dishevelled look always did it for him and it would be perfect on Beckett:  mussed hair and mussed clothes...

Oh.  There was no front fastening either.  A swift, erotic trace of fingers proved that there was no fastening on either side.  That was decidedly _not_ erotic.  He stopped ministering to the Beckett breasts and was immediately assaulted by the Beckett berating.

“Why’ve you stopped?”

“I was going to undo your bra” – he leered lasciviously – “but” – it changed to a worried look – “I can’t find the hooks.”

“I thought you were experienced?  Is all that reputation exaggerated?”

“No!  I’m an excellent lover.”

“But you can’t find the catch to undo it,” she smirked.


	2. Chapter 2

Castle suddenly stopped looking.  “Hang on.  _This_ is why you were cursing like a dockworker earlier.”

Dammit, he’d worked it out.

“There _isn’t_ a fastening.”  He stared at the bra, rather than her breasts.  Then he rolled Beckett over on to her stomach, and stared some more, and then rolled her back.  “How do you put it on?”

“What?”

“Research.  If this is how bras are now – especially your bras – I need to know about it.  So, how did you put it on – and why were you swearing about it?”

Only Castle could interrupt a hot session – and their _first_ session, at that – for research.  That was a mood-killer, for sure.  Beckett rapidly sat up, and humphed, looking for her shirt.

“Where are you going?”

“Shirt.  You’re more interested in research than me, so I’m going to research whether there’s a cup of coffee in the kitchen with my name on it.”  She swung her legs off the bed.

Castle swung her legs right back.  “You didn’t let me finish.  Most importantly, I was _going_ to say before you started sulking, how do you take it off?”  He grinned wolfishly.  “That’s the research I’m interested in.  I wanna take it off, but I don’t wanna spoil it.  It’s pretty.”  He gently pushed her back down and provided some tangible proof of his appreciation.

When she could gather thought again, Beckett considered.  She wasn’t actually sure how she could take it off, that having been the last thing on her mind earlier.  Well.  The second-last.  The _last_ thing would have been that Castle was taking it off.  Or trying to.  ( _Yeah, right_ , sneered the brainworm.)

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“How don’t you know?”

Beckett flushed.  “’Cause I only got it at the weekend and I haven’t worn it before.”

“Aw, that’s so cute. You put your pretty new underwear on, all for our first date.  I’m touched.”

He was certainly touched.  His nose was touched in a pincer grip of death that stopped just short of amputation.

“I hate to burst your bubble, but actually I hadn’t done my washing because of the case.  You know, the dead guy?”

“You’re so hot when you talk about homicide in nothing but sexy underwear,” Castle oozed, which didn’t improve Beckett’s mood one bit.  Nor did his removing her hands and holding them out of the way, without apparent effort.  “I like my nose,” he said happily.  “Leave it alone.”  Small plumes of fumes metaphorically emerged from Beckett’s ears.

“Now,” he said.  “Let’s do some investigation.  You know it’s great when we investigate together.  We can investigate how this bra-contraption” –

“Bralette.”

“– comes off.”  He looked ridiculously and dorkishly hopeful.  “I do love solving mysteries,” he said wistfully.

Something about the big blue eyes bypassed Beckett’s brain and went straight to the very small area responsible for soft emotions.  It might have been a square millimetre of her left ventricle.  Wherever it was, it made a sudden raid and conquered her common sense.  ( _Crap_ , said the brainworm rudely.  _You’re just trying to make excuses for what you want to do.  You could and would tie him into a pretzel if you didn’t want this._   She tied the brainworm into a pretzel.  It unwound.)

“Okay,” she said, and smiled sensuously.  “Let’s have a go.”

“It’s your bra, so you get first go,” Castle grinned.

“You like watching strip shows?”

“When it’s you.”  His eyes roamed up and down.  “Oh yes.  Definitely when it’s you.”

It was exceedingly clear that Castle’s mood had not been killed, and the expression on his face ( _that wasn’t where you were looking_ , snarked the brainworm) swept Beckett firmly back into the mood with him.

He sat back on the bed, eyes hotly alight and riveted to her.  This, Beckett thought, could be fun.  Castle’s tongue would be hanging out.  The sensuous smile intensified, and she sat up herself, legs in lotus position, which certainly attracted Castle’s attention, although not precisely to her legs, and prepared to drive him crazy.

She did drive him crazy.  Crazily laughing, that was.  She attempted to remove it as she would a t-shirt, and found that her arms, yoga notwithstanding, did not bend backwards or anywhere other than at her wrists and elbows.  She only just didn’t get stuck.  Which dumbass idiot invented this bralette anyway?  Then she tried to remove her arms from the shoulder straps, which was okay but really not the sexy reveal she’d been going for, and the thrice-damned garment then rolled itself up under her arms, squidging her breasts into two splodgy sausages.  She had really nice, pert breasts, not splodgy sausages.

Castle fell over laughing.  She unfolded, and kicked him, _almost_ gently.

The bralette stopped turning her into a butcher’s counter and rolled itself up over her breasts.  That didn’t improve matters.  Castle was practically crying.  She yanked it down and put it back on properly, then turned over into her pillows and presented the semi-hysterical man with a very offended rear.  ( _Nice to see you being the comedy act_ , the brainworm remarked.  Beckett fed it through a meat grinder and then nuked it.  It reformed, with three heads, all of which smirked.)

Castle managed to stop laughing eventually.  It had been a nice change for Beckett to be the one struggling to maintain her dignity, and failing.  He was so frequently the butt of the joke, and while he was happy to be a comedian most of the time, a little rebalancing wasn’t unwelcome.  However, Beckett sulking in the pillows was very unwelcome.  He prowled up the bed, and extracted her.

“Out you come.”

There was a filthily black mutter.

“It’s my turn.”  He smirked evilly.  “I think I’m going to like undressing you.  I like unwrapping presents, too.”

“I’m not a present.”

“No, but you are a gift,” he said, and hoped she couldn’t see down into his soul, covering sincerity with a smirk.  “Now, come here.”

He swept her into his arms, and indulged himself in kissing her firmly until the sulkiness had been replaced by passion and both of them were breathing much harder: hands exploring; sitting had become lying and while her hands grasped and curved around hard weight, his slipped and slid through moist heat, over nerves, eliciting male groans and female moans.  Taking the bralette off had been entirely forgotten as they mutually found the spots that made each other gasp and move. 

Castle’s expert, experienced fingers took over from any thoughts his brain might have had; operating entirely on passion and instinct to dip below the pretty navy fabric and find Beckett’s soaked, hot core; to glide fluidly to circle the knot of nerves and then dip down and enter; a broad finger in the tight channel, a thumb still flicking over the most sensitive spots: a slow thrust, a second finger, and she cried his name so he did it again and again and again and she cried out, again, and came against his hand.

He kissed her as she came down, gentle and sure, and kept her against him, safely in his arms where she should be, as she recovered.  Recovery was indicated by a full-body stretch, from toes to messy curls, and then a mischievous smile and wiggle against a part of Castle which appreciated the wiggle immensely.  He lay back and enjoyed the sensation of lax, snuggly Beckett.

Right up until he realised that lax, snuggly Beckett was actually sneakily stripping his boxers and slithering downwards, while still pretending to snuggle.  That was – oh fuck, that was – oh _fuck_ , _Beckett!_   She slithered back upwards, and resumed snuggling.  Somehow that didn’t seem fair, but he didn’t have the strength to level the field.  He settled for hanging on to the Beckett body, and snuggling.

After a few quiet moments, Castle became aware that the bra-thing – oh, yes, bralette – was still very resolutely in place.  That was unreasonable.  He thought carefully.  Beckett’s contortions, whilst amusing, had indicated that the bralette was...um...fitted.  He didn’t want to tear it, although he could always offer to replace it.  He wouldn’t mind at all buying Beckett underwear.

Back to the immediate underwear, rather than the potential for underwear, however.  His fingers wandered around the bralette’s band, and tried a sneaky dive under it.  Hmm.  Some slack, mainly because he could easily count Beckett’s ribs.  She was so slim, but he’d never realised it when she was giving orders in the precinct.  True, he wasn’t exactly thinking about her slimness when she was giving orders.  More her...um...hotness.  She could give him orders...well, some orders.  He could give her orders, in return.  (And the chance of her obeying, said his brain, would be nil.)

His fingers wandered a little more, up over the silky cups, and came to a stop conveniently placed to play teasingly with the small, firm mound and the peaked nipple.  She hummed encouragingly, inciting him to continue, and then add his mouth, causing little gasps and sighs, small wriggles and tiny squirms.

He settled himself comfortably over her, pressed against her core, propping himself up on his elbows and cupping her face. 

“Beautiful,” he breathed, and then squawked as she pulled him down and kissed him hard.  He extricated himself, eventually and with regrets, and grinned down.

“I think it’s my turn to try to divest you of this item,” he murmured, and knelt up between her spread legs, placed her hands above her head, slid his thumbs under each side of the band, and smoothly took it up and away without so much as a breeze touching her make-up.

“There.”  He stayed put, and simply observed.  “Just as gorgeous, but a lot more accessible.”  Beckett appeared to be speechless.  “Now that we’ve proved that you can’t take it off but I can, obviously I’ll need to help you with your underwear on a regular basis.”  Her mouth opened and shut several times without sounds emerging.  “So glad you agree,” he added suavely, and moved to one side so that he could assist with the last remaining piece of underwear, which was shortly whisked off.

“ _What_?” Beckett managed, the intimidation value of which ejaculation was notably diminished by her nakedness.

“You need help removing your underwear, so I’ll provide it,” Castle repeated, with an angelic smile and a distinctly devilish wander of his hand downwards.

“I _do not_ need help,” Beckett squawked.  “I’ve been dressing and undressing myself since I was three.”

“Not what today’s evidence showed,” Castle smirked.  “And” – his voice dropped half an octave and acquired a velvety quality that prevented her ears comprehending any words and rubbed sensually over her body – “you certainly seem to like it when I do it.”  His fingers glided through the proof that she liked it.  “So obviously you should let me help, and do things you like.”  One finger did something that she very vocally liked.  “Like that.”  Words appeared to have departed from the Beckett brain, except for the key words of _Castle!_ , _more_ , and a clutch of disgraceful profanities, mostly featuring the single word _fuck_.  He’d get to that.  But beforehand, he had a much better idea. 

Being Castle, and being totally confident of his, um, _abilities_ , he didn’t hesitate before moving straight down Beckett’s beautiful body and applying all the tricks of a very talented tongue to removing any objections to his presence which she might have thought up.  Thoughts were entirely unnecessary, and indeed entirely unhelpful.  Fortunately, any ability Beckett might have had to think had been lost at the first sweep of his tongue across her.  Castle was pretty certain that she was enjoying him almost as much as he was enjoying her.  Something about the way her magnificent legs were endeavouring to strangle him.  It was almost as affectionate as when she mauled his nose.  He tried a delicate nip, and she exploded on his name.

“You like that,” he said very smugly.  She couldn’t even muster a growl, so satisfied was she.  “You like _me_.  Lots.”  He grinned ferally, and prowled back up her body.  “I like you, too.  Lots.  So _obviously_ we should like each other a lot more.”

Her eyes were shut, and she was pretending not to listen, but the tiniest quirk of her lips told Castle that Beckett was paying attention.  Of course, she might have been paying attention to his wandering hand, not to his words, but he’d take her attention wherever she directed it right now, as long as it was he to whom she was attending.

Ah.  _Ohhhh_.  Maybe he should be attending to her.  His attention was suddenly...um...riveted.  The quirk was now quite definitely a smirk.  He’d thought _his_ hands were talented.  Oh, _God_.  Oh God.  Ohhhhhhh.  He lost all ability to think and then succumbed to instinct alone.  Instinct – and Beckett’s wicked, wanton hands – brought him above her, poised at her entrance, and then let him thrust forward and surge into her with a low roar.

She hauled his head down and captured his mouth, rolled him over and rose above him; he hauled her down and took her mouth in his turn and rolled them again, pinning them where they landed before one of them fell from the bed, which would really ruin the mood and probably do one or both of them considerable damage. Much better to stay in situ and be very, very happy together.  He kissed her before she could kiss him, which became mutual kissing, mutual touching, and then only the two of them, moving together in hard, fast rhythm until they exploded and shattered and fell together, still locked in each other’s embrace.

“Mine.”

“Nope, mine.”

“I called dibs first.”

“This isn’t like calling shotgun!”

“No, because I always drive.  I got there first.”  She stroked a hand over him, very possessively.  “Mine.”

Castle harrumphed.  “Not fair.”

“I think it is.”  The possessive stroke became a possessive grip, which moved up and down.  “Don’t you want to be mine?” she said in a sultry voice.

“Of course.”  Even if he hadn’t (in what universe would that be, he wondered?), he wouldn’t have dared disagree when her hand was – _oh fuck Beckett no fair!_ – right there.  But...  “But you have to be mine too.  I’m not a pet.”

“Mm.  Pets are soft and fluffy.”

He was not soft.  A little fluffy, maybe – that deliberately adorable floppy lock of hair on his forehead – but not soft.  Of which Beckett was perfectly well aware, since she was lazily ensuring that every inch was extremely hard.

“Not a pet, then.”

“No!” Castle said indignantly.

“So what are you?”

He smiled slowly, and leaned up on an elbow.  “I’m the best lover you’ll ever have,” he said arrogantly, and kissed her as her mouth opened on a response.  He lifted off.  “I’m the only lover you’ll ever want to have,” and kissed her again, as she squawked.

“You think?” she tried.

“No, I _know_.”

“How?” she challenged, eyes sparking.

“Because I’m here.”  He leaned down.  “And here,” as he moved across her.  “And here,” and he shifted slightly and filled her up.  “And you like having me here.”

“I like having you _here_ ,” she argued, and rolled them so he was flat on his back looking up at her.

“Works for me too,” Castle shrugged.  “Top, bottom, I don’t mind – as long as it’s you.”

Beckett gaped at him.

“Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” Castle said annoyingly.

“As long as it’s me?” she said in an unflattering squeak.  ( _Idiot_ , yelled the brainworm.  _Listen to what he means, not what he says_.  What the fuck did that mean?)

“Yeah.  As long as it’s you.  You don’t think I’d be doing this with Ryan or Espo, do you?”

“You don’t seem to be doing it with me either.”

Castle raised a suave eyebrow, which considering he was naked and flat on his back with Beckett straddling him took some doing.  “Are you sure about that?” he murmured wickedly, and flexed his hips just enough to prove that even the momentary thought of Ryan and Esposito just for once didn’t lead to _coitus interruptus_.  Not that they’d quite got to the _coitus_ part of that till now, though there had been far, far too much _interruptus_ which had certainly not improved the chances of _coitus_.

She gasped.

“I think you might want to change your mind about that,” he rasped, and rolled them again. She might have protested, but she was too busy arching up to him and leaving nail marks in his back and raiding his mouth to bother, and then he touched between them and she exploded beneath him and he thrust once, twice more and came himself, collapsing over her.


	3. Chapter 3

He rolled off, and took her with him so that he didn’t have to lose contact.  Beckett emitted a contented purr, and – astonishingly – stayed put.  He’d swear it was a snuggle, except that this was badass Beckett, who didn’t know a snuggle from a standard lamp.  Of course, he’d never heard her purr before either, so maybe, just maybe, at home she snuggled and purred and was cuddlesome.

And maybe the moon was really made of green cheese, too.

He lay there, with Beckett sprawled over him, and decided that this was likely as close as he was going to get to cuddlesome, which was a tad disappointing.  He liked cuddling.  On the other hand, he was pretty keen on sex with Beckett, which had exceeded his expectations (which had been sky high) by some distance.  It would just be nice to have cuddles too.

Oh.  Ohhhh.   Ohhhh, _cuddles_.  Beckett had quite positively, definitely, absolutely, totally _snuggled_ into him, tucked her dark head into his shoulder and nuzzled her nose into his neck, thrown an arm over his chest with a thoroughly possessive grip of her hand, and finished the job by tangling her insanely long legs into his.  She _did_ cuddle, and snuggle, and she _was_ purring.  He would _never_ have believed that post-sex Beckett was soft and snuggly.  More clean-up-and-go-home.  Except this was her home.  Well.  Make it clear she expected him to go home.  Ugh.

On balance, he _adored_ snuggly, soft, post-sex Beckett.  He made absolutely sure he had a strong, protective arm around her, linked his other arm into it to hold her cradled to him, and promptly fell asleep with the best cuddly object _ever_.

Beckett woke up because she was sweaty, sticky and, she discovered, stuck.  Through her sleep-soaked incoherence, she found that she was stuck to Castle.  Correction.  Castle was stuck to her.  She didn’t like being sticky.  Or stuck, for that matter.  She wriggled out of his arms.

Correction.  She _tried_ to wriggle out of his arms.  Said arms tightened, and suddenly it seemed like too much trouble to try to extract herself.  That might, of course, have had something to do with Castle rousing, so to speak.  His eyes were still firmly closed.  Wriggle away turned into wriggle over, which left him in a very interesting position with a great deal of, er, _potential_.  She stopped wriggling, and simply, um, _slid_.

Castle growled, tugged her down, and demonstrated that he could be very fully awake in less than a millisecond given the right encouragement.  This had to be the best wake-up call she’d had in years.  He fitted perfectly, hitting all the right spots, and most importantly he knew his way around the, um, _area_.  _Ohhhhh Castle!_  

“Good morning, Beckett,” he said happily, a little later, when both of them were showered.  Dressed... um... well... _she_ had a robe, but _he_ was swathed in a rather inadequate towel.  Coffee was happening.  Castle had wanted pancakes – she had too – but since her fridge contained one week-old half-portion of Chinese takeout and some worryingly blue fungus, it wasn’t going to happen.  She had an idea.

“We could go out and get breakfast.”

“Yes,” Castle said very thoughtfully.  “We _could_.”  He paused.  “But...”

“But?”

“But I’ll have to help you put that bra on.”

They didn’t get breakfast.  And they had to order in lunch.  The bra watched, from the floor.

The next day, two dozen bralettes were delivered.  Beckett stared at the package when she got home.

“Castle!” she screeched down the phone.  “What have you done?”

“Me?  Done?”

“Don’t play innocent” –

“Certainly not.  Being guilty is much more fun.  Shall I bring the handcuffs, Detective?”

“You bought me those dumb bralettes.  What did you do that for?”

“I like them.”

“I can’t take them off myself, you idiot!”

Castle said nothing, very meaningfully.

“You... you....”

“You don’t have to wear them _every_ day, you know.  Unless you want me to take them off every day.  I won’t object if you don’t,” he said helpfully.  Beckett howled again.  “You liked it when I took the original one off.  So did I.  Uncovering all that pulchritude” –

“You aren’t getting out of this by using ten-dollar flattery!  Take them back.”

“They won’t fit me.”

There was a wordless screech of fury.

“Aw, Beckett.”

“I don’t _need_ any more underwear.”

“Well, you could just not wear any, the next time you haven’t done your washing.  That definitely works for me” –

“I will shoot you.”

“You’d miss me.”

“Like I’d miss a thorn in my foot.”

“Mean. I know you don’t mean that.  You could mean the no underwear” –

“Shut up.  Now.”

“But it” –

“Shut.  Up.”

“Okay.”

The call was cut.

Some time later there was a very familiar, bouncy, rap on the door.  Beckett cursed under her breath, and opened the door.

Ten seconds later, she cursed aloud.  Castle had bounced straight past her into her bedroom and – why her, why _now_?

“Ooooohhhhh you’ve been peeking,” he enthused.  “I _knew_ you’d like them.”  He grinned ferally.  “You’ve been trying them on.”

“How did” – Beckett snapped her mouth shut two words too late.  ( _Not too late at all_ , smirked the brainworm, wearing shades and smoking a fat cigar.  _I know why you didn’t stop yourself_.)

“You’re wearing one now,” Castle said, half an octave lower and with a predatory expression on his face.  He prowled up to her.  “And since you can’t take it off by yourself, you put it on _because_ you knew I would come over.”  He put both large hands around her waist.  “Didn’t you, Beckett?”

“No,” she said unconvincingly.

“Telling lies is naughty,” he purred, and slipped his hands under her soft t-shirt on to her skin.  She breathed a little deeper, and her eyes gleamed greenly.  His hand slid upward, and stroked under the band.  Her hands went around his neck, without her brain getting in the way.  He leaned down, slowly, bringing one hand up to cup her skull and hold her for a hard, possessive kiss.  “Let’s see.”

At that point he realised that his belt and pants had become undone.  He shimmied his hips, which allowed them to fall off, and then ran his fingers around to the fastenings of Beckett’s pants.  Fair was fair, after all.  Her zipper opened, and his fingers pushed the pants off so that they could explore the thin silk and dip below into damp heat.  She gasped, and he removed his fingers and pressed closer, hoisted her up so she wrapped legs around him, then laid her out on the bed and loomed above her, hands locked and pinned against the pillow.  He shifted slightly against her: hard weight against hot heat, lazy smile reflected in her dark, dilated pupils: she bit her lip seductively, inviting him down.

“Not yet,” he murmured.  He let go of her hands, and sat back on his knees to unbutton his shirt, slowly.  She watched the show, eyes alight.  When the shirt slid from his wide shoulders, she sat up, and stroked both hands down from neck to the edge of his boxers, teasing his nipples and then resting with her thumbs tucked into the waist.  “Not yet,” he said again, and took her hands away so that he could remove her t-shirt and examine the sheer fabric barely concealing her breasts. 

“You were ogling, so I get to ogle too.”

“I don’t ogle!”

“Leer?”

“That’s for dirty old men.  Like you.”

“I’m not old.  But I’ll happily be very dirty with you.  Just have patience.  All this hurry is really quite unnecessary.  Taking it slowly will be even better.  Wait and see.  Or better still, wait and feel.”  While he was talking, his fingertips had been exploring her midriff, sinking slightly to tease the front panel of her panties, rising to play at the undercurve of her breast.  Her breathing became shallower, half a sigh: he brought her forward to straddle him so that he could take her mouth with sure, strong confidence.

“Take them off,” Beckett growled, tugging at his boxers.

“Sure,” he said happily.  “You only had to ask.”  He lifted her without any apparent effort, and rolled her pretty panties away.  She was lying on her back with his face leaning on her stomach before her mouth opened.

“Not _mine_ , _yours_.”

“You didn’t specify.  And I prefer yours.”

“You wanna wear my underwear?  We need to talk.”

“Nope, and right now I don’t want you wearing it either.”  His wide shoulders nudged her legs apart.  “It would spoil all your fun.”

“Don’t you mean _your_ fun?” she snipped.

“No.  See, I could do this” – he stroked his tongue down her stomach – “whether your panties were on or off, and I could do this” – his tongue parted the soft curls – “just the same too, and this” – the tip of his tongue drew a wicked little circle and she gasped – “but you wouldn’t enjoy it half as much because you’d lose the – er – finer points.”  He demonstrated with another wicked little circle.

“Stop _talking_.”

“Would you?”

“Would I what?  Just _stop talking_ and” –

“And?  Would you enjoy it more with your panties on?  Because – _ow!_ ”

Beckett had got tired of the talking and, since Castle wasn’t doing anything useful with his mouth, pulled his head up by way of his nose.  It worked in the precinct.

It didn’t work in her bedroom. Castle removed her death-grip on his nose with consummate ease, and tutted at her.

“That’s rude.  Just when I was asking you what you liked best, you spoilt it.  Patience, Beckett.  Didn’t we just discuss patience?”

She growled at him.  He smirked. 

“Slow and steady wins the race.  Or in this case, the prize.”

“I prefer less talking, more action.”

“I like both.”

“You never stop talking.”

“If you hadn’t interrupted me,” he said with a saintly smile, “I wouldn’t have stopped the action either.”

“What action?  There was no action.  You just talked.  So much for your reputation.”

“My reputation is well-deserved.”  Beckett emitted a disgusted noise.  “And if you’d just let me carry on, you’d have found that out.  Although you already know” –

“Pah!”

“Because you were very obviously enjoying the fruits of my research yesterday.  And the night before.  I didn’t hear you complaining about anything then.  You were demanding more.”

“Hmph.”

“But if you don’t wanna play that’s okay.  We won’t do anything you don’t want.  Consent is very important.” 

The prim tone was quite infuriating.  Beckett was duly infuriated, and expressed it by hauling Castle towards her by his convenient ears and kissing him to shut him up.  Approximately half a second later she realised that the _rat_ had played her, although at least his ears had suffered for it.  Her kiss had been entirely subsumed in his much more predatory and possessive attack, and somehow she was pinned down by the bulk of his body with thick weight pressing demandingly through his boxers and against her. ( _And it feels good_ , said the brainworm smugly.)

“You could just have said, you know.”

“I did.  You ignored it.”

“No, you just got impatient.  A bit like you got impatient with your pretty bralette.  Which, I notice, you’re still wearing.”  His eyes darkened again.  “Do you need some help taking it off?”

“It can stay on.”

Beckett ended the discussion by conquering his mouth again in such a forceful fashion that Castle couldn’t fight back – especially when she followed up with the forceful and rapid removal of his boxers.  Of course, she couldn’t both kiss him and get the boxers completely out of the way, but as soon as her evil fingers explored, raided and took firm hold of him, Castle managed to lose the shorts without further delay.  Unfortunately, losing the boxers seemed to have restored some brain function, which considering where his blood actually was didn’t seem right at all.  Where was physiology when she needed it – oh.  Ohhhhhhh.

Okay, not kissing her was not fair.  Not letting her have her own wicked way was also not fair.  But since he was determinedly kissing down her body and – _oh fuck oh yes_ – was back to where he shouldn’t have left and _thank Christ_ not talking, she’d put up with the unfairness.  He shouldn’t be able to _do_ that with his mouth but he could practice as much as – _ohhhh_ – he liked on her.  She couldn’t stop the noises spilling from her mouth or the wild twisting of her hips but luckily Castle was exerting some extremely impressive strength to hold her wide and mostly still and – _fuck Castle_ – he’d teased and licked and sucked and ­– _ohhhhh God don’t stop_ – now he was flickering from inside to out and her hands were in his hair to make sure he couldn’t stop and _oh fuck Castle!_

Castle slithered up the bed and gathered Beckett in.  That had been profoundly satisfying.  Reducing Beckett to a mass of writhing lust was definitely satisfying.  Cuddling her lax, snuggly body afterwards was perfect.

Of course, cuddling her wet, wriggly body was pretty damn good too, and right now, the wriggles were indicating that she was about to initiate more than cuddles.  He guessed he’d cope. 

His hands ran up her body to the edge of the bralette – he really, really liked these bralette things, mainly because it ensured he got to take them off and undressing Beckett was something he could get used to in, oooohhhh, about half a second or so – and insinuated his thumbs under the band.

“Nuh-uh,” Beckett murmured.  “Paws off.”

“But...”

“Nope.”

“I want to play,” Castle pouted.

“So do I.  Patience.”  She smirked.  “You keep telling me to be patient.”  She rolled Castle on to his back, and examined him from toes to top.  “Hm,” she said.  Castle flexed his muscles, and the hum acquired an edge of arousal.  Her gaze strolled back down, and took a rest somewhere around the middle, at a particularly scenic spot.

“Staring is creepy,” Castle tried.

“Just deciding whether my eyes are bigger than my mouth,” Beckett tossed back. 

Castle choked, and then preened, and then pulled her down across him to kiss her.  His thumbs slipped back to the band of the bralette.  Without looking, she tapped his fingers sharply.  Castle whined at her.

“Nope.”  She sat up. 

He whined louder.  “Come back and be kissed.”

“Thought you wanted this off?”

“You can’t take it off yourself.”

Beckett smiled, inscrutably feline.

“You can’t!  That was the whole...point... Beckett?”

Beckett executed a boneless, beautifully sinuous squirm, and the bralette hit the floor.  She smirked.

“You... you... you _played me_!” Castle squawked.  “You could take it off yourself all the time!”

Beckett sniggered.

“Hang on.  You weren’t faking the first time.  You’d never make a fool of yourself like that.”  He scowled.  “I bought you all these pretty things so I could peel them off you slowly, stroking and kissing all the way, and you’ve been practising so you don’t need me.”

“You didn’t have to buy me anything.  I didn’t ask you to,” she noted.  He huffed, since it was entirely true.  Beckett never asked him for anything.

“Who says I don’t want you to peel them off me?” Beckett husked, crawling over him.  “Who says I don’t need you?” She rubbed herself over him.  It was very clear that she wanted him.  Castle growled deep in his chest.  “Of course, if you don’t want to...”

“Who says?” Castle mimicked, and trapped her, rolling them again and imprisoning her beneath him.  “I’ve got you.”  He deployed his far greater bulk to prove it.  “Deceiving me wasn’t kind.”

Beckett executed another sinuous, sensual movement which resulted in her legs around his waist and Castle deep within her.  “But then you might not have been here,” she pointed out.  “Seems like you like being here.”

“I do,” Castle purred dangerously, and moved.  “And here” – he pushed again – “and here” – she moaned as he hit the perfect spot – “and here” – his fingers took a detour and she cried out his name, so he did it again and then gave up anything resembling thought because she was just so tight and hot and wet and perfect and _all his_ and nothing remained but her and him and them and explosion.

“It wasn’t fair, you know.”

“What wasn’t?” Beckett murmured into his neck, nestled into his embrace. 

“Making me think you needed help.”

“Awww,” she said insincerely.  “Would you rather not have come?”  Somehow he wasn’t at all sure that she meant _travelled to my apartment_.

He waggled an eyebrow.  “Would you rather I hadn’t?”  She snuggled closer, and didn’t answer.  “Anyway, you deceived me.”

“You deceived yourself.  You knew I did yoga.”

“I didn’t know you were a contortionist.”

Beckett unsnuggled marginally, and assumed a perfect King Cobra pose, feet firmly placed on the back of her head.  Castle’s eyes bugged out. She unfolded, and flopped back on to him.

“I’m flexible,” she said.

“But two days ago you couldn’t take it off yourself.”

“The first time.  Of course I worked out how.”  Castle pouted.  Beckett stretched a little and kissed it.  “You won’t be here every time.”  He pouted again, and got kissed again.  “But when you are,” she breathed into his ear, “I’ll let you help.”

“I can be flexible too,” he noted.

“You can?”

“Mm.  Definitely.  But one thing I’m not flexible about at all.”

“Mm?”

“Being in love with you.”

**_Fin._ **


End file.
